And, in a moment of impatience, the young man threw the rest of his bread into the mud.
At the same moment a soldier of the line came from the tavern, stooped and picked up the bread, drew back a few steps, wiped it with his sleeve and began to devour it eagerly.
Henri de Hardimont was already ashamed of his action, and now with a feeling of pity, watched the poor devil who gave proof of such a good appetite. He was a tall, large young fellow, but badly made; with feverish eyes and a hospital beard, and so thin that his shoulder-blades stood out beneath his well-worn cape.
“You are very hungry?” he said, approaching the soldier.
“As you see,” replied the other with his mouth full.
“Excuse me then. For if I had known that you would like the bread, I would not have thrown it away.”
“It does not harm it,” replied the soldier, “I am not dainty.”
“No matter,” said the gentleman, “it was wrong to do so, and I reproach myself. But I do not wish you to have a bad opinion of me, and as I have some old cognac in my can, let us drink a drop together.”
The man had finished eating. The duke and he drank a mouthful of brandy; the acquaintance was made.
“What is your name?” asked the soldier of the line.